


The Way (Zack Hemsey)

by Clitler



Series: Destiel Playlist [32]
Category: Supernatural, The Stand - Stephen King
Genre: BAMF Sam Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Destiel Fluff, Disassociation, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Hypnosis, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Sabriel fluff and smut, Sam Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 04:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13356669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clitler/pseuds/Clitler
Summary: Sam's POVSequel to Believer (Imagine Dragons)





	The Way (Zack Hemsey)

**Author's Note:**

> So, as promised I wrote a little Sammy POV, not a lot, though because we're coming up on the big boss battle.
> 
> My characterization of Sam is based on the show and this video by SecretlytoDream https://youtu.be/xEx2k6b6U4g

The Way (Zack Hemsey)

            “ _Sammich_ ,” Sam wakes to Gabe’s voice whispering in his ear. “ _Samalam_ , he breathes and Sam smiles.  “ _Samsquash_ ,” he giggles, his soft breath tickling Sam’s ear and his smile widens into a grin.  “ _Oh, Sammine_ ,” he groans and Sam frowns slightly, not sure if that’s another nonsense name or a mashup of two words, but the brush of Gabe’s fingers across his closed eyelids makes him smile again.  Gabe always smells like sunshine and sugar.  Even when he hasn’t bathed that day, his hair still looks soft and fine, glowing like a halo around his head.  His stupid jokes seem tailor-made to make Sam’s inner child chuckle and consequently, he’s never figured out how to stay angry at Gabe.  Gabriel kisses him like he’s drowning and Sam is his only way up to the light.  He licks into Sam’s mouth and tastes like cherry cola, no matter what he’s been eating.  Sam smiles.

 

            “Why is he smiling?” Brady asks.

 

            Naomi walks over to where Sam is strapped to her special table and lifts one of his eyelids.  She watches the heart monitor, noting Winchester’s heart rate and blood pressure.  She walks back over to Brady, who’s fidgeting like he needs to urinate.  “Stand still,” she barks.  Naomi sighs and her right thumb finds its way between her front teeth.  After a few nibbles, she forces herself to lower her hand, clasping it in her left tightly to keep it from straying again.  “He’s in a state of self-induced hypnosis.  In effect, he isn’t here.  Nothing we do to him while he’s under will have much, if any effect, other than to pull him out.  But even then, he can slip back under any time he likes.  We simply don’t have enough trainers available to keep him awake 24/7.”

 

            “How did you let this happen?” Edgar growls.

 

            “Is he…is he _hard_?” Brady stutters.

 

            “My program calls for scattered 10-minute breaks during physical sessions.  It has a very specific purpose.  The subject regains a little bit of hope every time we give them a break.  Hope is what we use, it’s what we will break.  Need I remind you all how effective it’s been so far?  My numbers speak for themselves when you consider-“

 

            “Wake him up,” Roman speaks softly from Edgar’s right side.  The man had been standing there for almost an hour now, watching Sam Winchester enjoy what appeared to be a very vivid sex dream and he was ready for this to be over.  Naomi may be at the top of her game, the brightest in her field, but she hadn’t been raised by Alana Roman.

 

            Naomi walked back to the table and lit a small butane torch.  She ran the flame along the outside of Sam’s right foot.  The smell was like burnt hair and pork and Brady turned quickly to run from the room.  He didn’t make it and puked in the corner.  Sam screamed, his voice ripping from his throat like a living thing, a sound of infinite anguish that made Edgar, a long-time lapsed Catholic, cross himself and mutter a prayer taught to him by his abuela under his breath.

 

            Sam’s eyes crashed open and the light was a good distraction from the throbbing pain coursing through his body for about 0.003 seconds.  Suddenly, Dick Roman’s face was hovering in his line of vision.

 

            “Sam? Can you hear me, Sam?”

 

            “Unghhhhh…”

 

            “He’s dead.  Gabriel is dead, Sam.”

 

            “Nnnggghhhh…”

 

            “Yes, Sam.  He tried to come back and he was shot.”

 

            “’Ot true…”

 

            “Oh, yes, I’m afraid it is true.  I saw his body myself.  Took a bullet to the old brain pan, what a mess, but it was definitely him.  So, if he’s what is keeping you from telling us what we want to know, just let it go.”

 

            A tremendous sob escaped the man on the table and one of the two big men who had frog-marched the prisoner down to Naomi’s domain and stayed to guard the man as he was tortured for the last twelve hours swiped a big hand across his eyes quickly, knocking tears off his face before Naomi could see.

 

            Roman leaned over to whisper in Sam’s ear, “You have nothing left.”  Without looking away from Sam’s crumbling face, he pointed at Naomi.  She lit the butane flame again and applied it to the bottom of Sam’s right foot.  Brady ran from the room, chased three floors up the stairs by the screams of the man who had once given Brady his last five dollars to buy something to eat during those lean college years.

 

           

 

            “This is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had.”

 

            “It sure is. You ready?”

 

            “Yup.”

 

            Dean stood up from where he and Cas had been crouched, rounded the corner and walked straight up to the gate.  The guard sitting on a high stool inside the little guard shack stood up and leaned lazily against the open window.

 

            “Heya!” Dean said cheerfully.  He glanced at the man’s nametag, “Bob, how’s it hangin’?”

 

            The guard spared Dean a bored expression and retrieved a clipboard, “State your name and authorization code.”

 

            Dean tried not to look at Rufus as he snuck up to the window on the other side of the shack, “Uh, my name’s Dean Winchester.  I’m an Aquarius.  I like long walks on the beach and frisky women.”  The guard’s face had nothing on Sam’s bitch face.

 

            “Name and authorization code,” he repeated, his hand hovering shakily over the gun in a holster on his belt.  Dean smiled to see the holster was still fastened.  This poor fat bastard had probably never had to draw a gun on a real-life person in his life.

 

            Dean opened his mouth to reply just as Rufus slid the window open behind the guard.  The grating squeal it gave was loud in the small space.  Bob turned as quickly as his large stomach and the confined area it was in would allow him, but he didn’t even have a chance to look Rufus in the eye before Dean was clocking him over the back of the head with the billy-club up his sleeve.  Bob went down like a sack of potatoes, if said sack of potatoes weighed 300 pounds and was squished into a three-foot square building.  Rufus finally got the recalcitrant window open, just in time for both men to hear Bob’s unconscious form let out a loud fart.

 

            Dean barked out a loud laugh and Rufus’ lined face split in a broad smile, the first Dean had ever seen on the old man’s face.  Dean hit the green button to open his side of the gate as the rest of his group of five ran up to pour through the entrance. Rufus opened the exit gate and his group joined him in going toward the West entrance to the plant.  Dean smiled at Billie, Jody, Meg, and Zeke.

 

            “Okay, let’s light this candle!”

 

 

 

            “And his _face_ , the first time I kissed him, I’m tellin’ ya, Jess, freaking priceless!”

 

            The sound of Jess’ tinkling laughter, like chimes, pulls him into the living room, where the sun is slanting low, making starburst glints of the picture frames on the mantle.  He’s just gotten home from work and he can smell something rich with tomatoes and spices.

 

            A familiar voice calls from the kitchen, “Hey, man, tell ‘er about when he tripped on the first date and lost his shoe!”

 

            Jess notices he’s home and launches off the couch to wrap her graceful arms around his chest, her dimples popping, eyes sparkling as she kisses him sweetly, “We’re so glad you’re home, babe,” she says as she takes his coat and briefcase and tucks them into the hall closet.  Sam looks up at the person on the loveseat.

 

            Gabriel turns around halfway and grins at him before sauntering around the couch to hug him, burying his face in Sam’s chest.  He grins up at him after a moment, wrapping Sam’s favorite tie around his hand and pulling Sam in for a long, slow kiss.  The combination of Jess’ spearmint taste with Gabe’s cherry cola flavor is surprisingly good.  Jess walks by, trailing her hand across Sam’s shoulder as he deepens the kiss with Gabe.

 

            “Hey now! None of that! Dinner’s ready, anyway,” Dean shouts as he walks from the kitchen to the dining room, a pan of something bubbling with cheese held in his oven-mitted hands.  “Jess, wanna grab the salad?  Gabe, garlic bread.  Sammy, go wash up.”

 

            The next instance, because that’s how it always goes in dreams, even Sam’s, he’s sitting at the dining room table Jess’ folks gave them when they bought the house, Jess on his right and Gabe on his left.  Dean’s pouring glasses of red wine for everyone, then dishing out a truly indulgent-looking lasagna.  Jess adds some spinach salad to his plate and Gabe plops a big piece of cheesy garlic bread next to it.

 

            Dean’s sitting across from him and everyone stares at Sam, “Well? Try it, Sammy.  We’ve been working on it all day.  Tell us what you think,” Dean tells him.

 

            Sam dutifully takes a bite of the steaming lasagna, then the sharp, sweet salad, then the salty bread, moaning his approval and washing it all down with a sip of wine, “It’s good…so good.” Sam returns Dean’s joyous smile, then smiles at Jess and Gabe. “It’s…perfect,” he laughs lightly, “It’s all…perfect!”

 

            “Gabe made a cherry pie for desert,” Dean winks at him.

 

 

 

            “That’s it,” Monroe Styne sighs as he drops his latest tool on the bloody tray, “Jacob, clean up the wounds.  Eldon, go get Naomi.”  Monroe removes his apron and armguards, along with his gloves and drops the whole mess in the trash can in the corner.  Eldon is almost to the door when the lights go out.

 

            The heart monitor, on which Winchester’s heart rate keeps ticking away at a steady 83 beats per minute, just as it had this entire time, provides a little illumination by virtue of a battery backup as Monroe shakes his head, hands on his hips, “What is it now?”  

 

            Eldon holds the door for his father, “You coming with me?”

 

            “Yes. Jacob, get him presentable,” he instructs as he follows Eldon into the pitch-black hall.  No emergency lights down here, but Eldon switches on his penlight and they follow the corridor to the stairwell.

 

            Jacob grabs his father’s headlamp and straps it on so he can clean the prisoner up.  He instructs the two guards to take the man back to his cell then disappears after his father and brother.

 

            Of course, the cell doors won’t open when they get there and the two men stare dumbly from the body slumped between them to the cell door and back.  The distant sounds of gunfire and shouting bring their heads up to stare at each other.

 

            “What the fuck?”

 

            “I don’t know.” More gunfire, someone screaming, someone else shouting and running across the floor above them.

 

            “Fuck this, man, let’s go!”

 

            “What? No, man! She’ll kill us if we’re caught! Or…she won’t.” Both men look at Sam again.

 

            “Fuck that, this is my chance and I’m takin’ it!” He drops his side of Sam and bolts for the hallway.

 

            “Hey!”  The guard who cried for Sam props him gently against the cell door with a muttered ‘sorry, buddy’ and follows his friend.

 

            Sam cracks his eyes open but can’t see anything more than he could before they were open.  His body screams at him, but he drops onto all fours and crawls slowly back out the way they came, keeping to the wall.  At the juncture to the hallway leading to the stairwell, Sam grunts and levers himself up to standing.  The pain in his feet is a searing nightmare that steals his breath and he dry heaves for a full two minutes before he’s able to stop himself.  Still leaning heavily on the wall, Sam heads in the direction of the stairs.  A light jitters down the hallway as someone with a small flashlight runs towards him.

 

            “Holy shit, man,” the light tells him.

 

            “Wh-where…s…stairs?” Sam slurs.

 

            “Uh, back the way you came, man.  I gotta go,” and then the light is gone.  Sam turns around and makes it to the stairs as quick as he can.  The feeble glow from the emergency lights cascades out the small window in the door like a beacon.  Sam opens the door, leaning heavily on the bar, and gets knocked down when a man crashes into the door as he runs wildly by.  Sam pulls himself along the floor and clear of the door.  He just doesn’t have it in him to stand again, so he starts up the stairs on his stomach and wishes the dream of his family had been Heaven.

 

            On the fourth landing, he spots a big ‘G’ next to the exit door and promptly passes out.

 

           

 

            “Now we wait,” Gabriel flung himself down, his back to the Audi they were hiding behind.  Dean growled but followed the example, leaning against the wall of the parking structure next to Cas.  He tried to concentrate on Cas’ hand in his, his long fingers, like a musician’s fingers, the new callouses and the rims of recently burst blisters.  Cas’ hands were a testament to the last three months.  Struggle, hard travel, the seeping cold, all had left a mark.  Dean pulled Cas’ hand up and kissed each finger softly.  Cas smiled sadly over at him.  He’d told Dean last night that his hands were covered in blood and they’d never be clean again, then he’d collapsed in tears.  The deaths at the power plant would be with them for a long, long time, but Dean was determined to show Cas none of it was his fault.  For right now, the loss of Billie and Zar was a weight he could do little to alleviate.

 

            Dean’s focus shifted to Gabriel when Cas rests his head on Dean’s shoulder.  The closer they got to Sam, the worse the little man looked.  He’d dropped any pretense of cleaning himself two days ago, stopped sleeping the same time.  His eyes were rimmed in deep blue smudges, his nails bitten to the quick, and Claire’s offer of a cherry Coke yesterday had brought him to tears for no discernible reason.  If they didn’t find Sam today, Dean wasn’t sure Gabriel wouldn’t shake himself into a million pieces.  Waiting on Charlie’s signal was going to be torture for Gabriel.

 

 

 

            Sam’s sitting on the loveseat, looking through a photo album that doesn’t exist outside his own head.  Growing up, he and Dean were never in one place long enough to worry about getting pictures developed, or collecting portraits taken at their various schools, so Sam had created this album.  Over the years, the pictures had been shuffled around, replaced and added to, but three remain from his childhood.  A picture of their mother, her hair spun flax next to their dad’s dark good looks, her belly large with Sam, her face turned to look lovingly at Dean, held high in their dad’s arms.  The next was a picture of Sam and Dean sitting on the hood of the Impala, Dean’s ten-year old arm thrown around Sam’s slim six-year old shoulders, both of them smiling, but Dean’s smile lit up the image.  The third was a shot of Bobby and Dean bent over the open hood of some old junker, Dean just starting to shoot up at the wise old age of thirteen, his burnished head thrown back in laughter, Bobby’s face creased in a huge grin.

 

            Sam’s smile at his brother’s pictures falters when he remembers how he treated Dean for the last decade.  He’d chosen Stanford specifically to get away from his father, but partly to get out from under Dean’s constant mothering.  The first time he’d heard the word ‘sMother’ he’d instantly thought of Dean.  It was so unfair of him, to run away, to think of Dean like that, to _stay_ away.  And now, his amazing brother, who laughed at stupid jokes and made Sam grilled cheese and tomato/rice soup when he was sick and cried unashamedly at the Lion King just because Sam did, was dead and gone.  Dean was more than he deserved, the only real constant in his whole life and he’d thrown it away on a chance to be ‘normal’.

 

            Sam flips angrily past the pictures of his childhood and the ones from his wedding, to the last picture he took of Jess.  The wind had picked up her hair and flung it around her face.  She was squinting into the California sun, her mouth partly open where she had been about to say something.  He pets a finger down her image.  As much as he regrets leaving Dean alone in Kansas, he could never regret his years with Jess.  The happiest day of his life had been the day she said she’d marry him, as cheesy as that sounds.  The wedding pictures were all so posed and fake, but this Jess was real, a beautiful girl who had no idea of the power of that beauty and so had matched the outside to the inside with a guileless heart.  Sam hadn’t deserved her, either.

 

            Sam moves on to the most hurtful pictures, the most recent, the ones of Gabriel.  These are the most numerous because his life with Gabe is the most recent.  Gabe laughing so hard he was crying.  Gabe sitting in Charlie’s lap, kissing her cheek.  Gabe looking over at Sam with so much love in his eyes, the morning light filtering through the blinds in Sam’s bedroom.  Gabe’s golden eyes darkened with lust as he looks down at Sam as Sam swallows his cock, one big hand spread across Gabe’s chest pink with a blush. Gabe winking at Sam across the conference room, a sucker stuck in his mouth.  So much life and laughter contained in such a small package, a firework who had so briefly lit Sam’s dark sky with explosions of sound and color.  Sam lets the tears fall, they can’t ruin these pictures, the pictures Sam keeps all for himself.  He _definitely_ didn’t deserve Gabriel.

 

            Sam wakes up to silence.  When he’d passed out in the stairwell, some far away klaxon had been sounding, now it had run out.  Sam looks down at himself.  Someone had pushed his body out of the way and he’d against the cold, concrete wall, completely naked.  His feet are bleeding again and covered in dust from the lower levels, his stomach and chest are a map of purple and red bruises, his inner thighs covered in scorch marks from the electrocution, and his jaw aches where it was dislocated, then popped back into place.  He doesn’t remember 90% of the torture but what he does remember is bad enough.  He remembers Dick Roman telling him that Gabriel was dead.  

 

            Sam begins the arduous process of getting to his feet then starts up the stairs, heading for the fourteenth floor and his apartment.  When he runs Ruby’s blade through Roman’s heart, he intends to do so fully dressed.


End file.
